


my limbs all froze and my eyes won't close

by womanaction



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Episode: s06e13 Dead Things, F/M, Suicide mentions, dom!spike (kinda), pure idfic honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 16:31:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18076964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/womanaction/pseuds/womanaction
Summary: Buffy, Spike, handcuffs, need, power.





	my limbs all froze and my eyes won't close

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the ambiguous handcuffs scenes in "Dead Things", although not exactly meant to fit into the plot of that episode.

“Do you trust me?”

It’s not bright, of course it’s not bright down here, it’s a vampire’s crypt – but some stream of light manages to glint off the handcuffs.

She shivers. “Never,” she responds instinctively, fingers curling around the rug.

His blue eyes flick up to hers. He must not be surprised, but there’s something there. Or, well, nothing. It doesn’t matter to her that he’s looking at her like he’s starving because he’s a monster and by definition, she must be the thing he’s hungry for.

“Then, maybe,” he says, obviously enjoying the words, “you be in charge, eh, love? Know how you like that.” He dangles the cuffs a little closer. She wonders just how cold they are. His borrowed heat has probably warmed them a little, but she wants to imagine they’re freezing.

He’s giving her that look she hates now, the one where he’s trying to suss – _figure_ out what she’s thinking. It makes her feel like some kind of aberration in one of Giles’s books. “Or maybe you’ve never-“

“No,” she interrupts quickly. Once. Fuzzy cuffs, for Riley’s birthday. She had gotten into it then, maybe too into it. Afterward, it was weird, and the cuffs never left that drawer in his bedroom. She wonders where they are now, if some better braver woman is using them on him while he makes those quiet little-

“With me, love.” It’s not a question.

She shouldn’t feel guilty.

“I’ve used them before,” she concedes.

He quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

She’s looking at the cuffs. She tries to imagine Spike, chained up. Well, she’s imagined that before, but for other reasons. Fighty reasons, easy reasons, good reasons. Now, him…vulnerable… _hers…_

“If you don’t want to play, love…”

She hates the softness in his voice.

But she hates the way she feels at the thought of putting those cuffs on him even more. So she pushes his hand gently, barely touching him. “I don’t want to be in charge.”

She closes her eyes and waits. A familiar cold touch and then one a little more foreign. She doesn’t shiver.

* * *

 

God, she’s not proud of this, but it’s 2 in the morning and she has to be up at 5 so she needs _something_ , anything to get her there.

She’s alone. Three visits in one day would be verging on codependence. She’s alone, and maybe the resurrection has given her wacky nymphomania powers because her fingers are half-buried before she realizes what she’s doing.

There’s a little mantra she has these days: _don’t think about Spike, don’t think about Spike._ It comes up in all sorts of situations, but seems especially relevant at this moment. She’s so inexplicably wet and desperate, _not Spike not Spike not Spike_ , as she works herself more from sense memory than any sort of conscious decision.

Are her fingers tracing the same paths as his? She can still feel his spendings when she dips inside. She wastes a few seconds wondering what the hell it is that he comes, and stifles a laugh at the thought of asking Giles - god, she’s cracked. She has officially lost it.

This position isn’t working. She rolls over onto her stomach. The access is more difficult but at least the force can begin to match the crushing pressure mounting inside.

He had turned her over like this. It wasn’t something he did often – she supposes he likes to look at her face, revel in the fact that it’s _her_ , the Slayer he finally bagged. Or some other, worse reason which she’s not going to think about, because no matter how soft his eyes get she knows it isn’t real, just fantasy.

But fantasy never hurt anyone, right? The fantasy of him behind her, touching her so gently it can’t possibly be happening. Skating his fingers up and down her curves, murmuring soft Britishisms that she can barely hear or understand. His touch so mesmerizing she almost forgets the cuffs entirely.

 

_I don’t want to be in charge._

Spike didn’t do things by halves. If she’d taken him up on his offer, he would have been her willing slave. But this is what she chose.

“All mine,” he whispers into her neck. She can pretend it’s only the brush of his lips that sends a chill up her spine. And maybe Spike has some heretofore unknown extra demony hands, because it feels like he’s touching her all over all at once.

It’s just a fantasy, just a game. What would Spike call it? A dance.

Her role is to melt, to allow, to be his. That may not require the sort of pathetic noise she makes as she arches her back and spreads her legs as far as her position allows, but hey, she’s method.

Spike chuckles into her ear, surprised and delighted. His hands continue to roam, never lingering even as she presses up into his touch. “Don’t rush it, love.”

But the man who couldn’t wait to kill her on Saturday acquiesces soon enough, with one, two, three fingers giving her at least some of what she wants. His touch is still somehow light, teasing, unpredictably alternating fast and slow. It’s maddening, and she wants to wring his neck (and maybe his cock, make _him_ beg for it) but all she does is grind up against his touch and make even more desperate sounds. She almost wishes he would have gone a step further and gag her, because if she ends up verbally begging him she might actually die of embarrassment.

He speeds up the tempo of his fingers and growls in her ear. “What do you want, pet?”

She moans in response, swallowing back any words her traitorous short-circuiting brain wants to scream back. Images flash before her: their positions reversed, Spike needy and wanting and her giving him what he’s asking for. _“You,”_ he would manage, somehow out of breath. _“You, Buffy, I always want you.”_

Bad thoughts, bad thoughts, bad thoughts. “Fuck me,” she says instead, the easier answer.

He stills, and she almost groans in response. When he speaks after a second, his voice is carefully even. “That what you want, Slayer? Thought you were supposed to be all prim and proper, good girl and all that. Old Rupert never taught you the magic word?”

She’s going to kill him if she doesn’t kill herself first. “ _Please_ ,” she says with as much venom as she can muster.

He withdraws his fingers. She waits, almost vibrating. Then –

* * *

 

She claps her free hand over her mouth as she comes. Her release is powerful, rocking her body. It’s enough to put her to sleep, but not enough to really satiate.

As she drifts off, body still buzzing, she sees him. Not smirking and self-satisfied like he was when he removed the cuffs, but soft and tender. The kind of look she avoids, or slaps off his face when she can’t.

She wakes up too few hours later, arms still encircling nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting around as a WIP for several months and after #BuffySlayDay yesterday I was finally inspired to finish it. 
> 
> Possibility looms of the sequel (Spike gets pegged).


End file.
